


He Doesn't Have Friends

by bakers_impala221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Households, Angst, Depression, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Romance, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Teenagers, Teenlock, implied self harm, sherlock and john - Freeform, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 17:05:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakers_impala221/pseuds/bakers_impala221
Summary: Sherlock knows all about John Watson, the well-regarded rugby player in his year -of course he does. He's heard all about his perfect reputation and absolute kindness. He just never expected it to be directed towards him.But now that he's got a new friend, people might just assume things. Sherlock, himself, doesn't care, but he worries for how much John is willing to put up with.  What happens if those assumptions go too far?-Currently on major hiatus for this fic. Pretty much like the canon show. Don't know if I'll ever come back to finish this, but I have been trying to tie up loose ends/unfinished fics before I wrap up writing Johnlock fics for good. So until this is done, I guess I'm still writing





	He Doesn't Have Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheekycheekbones (Cheeycheekbones)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheeycheekbones/gifts).



  Sherlock couldn’t move. His hand lay still on his chest, an attempt to cool the burning under his skin and his heart from beating out of his chest. He stared at the ceiling, the only movement in his body the slow lowering of eyelids and soft rise and fall of his chest.

  His eyes strung from prolonged exposure to the cold air, but he couldn’t be arsed to care, seeing as currently the world around him had shattered like glass and he was left laying on broken shards that cut his back and arms and legs sharply from around him.

  His mind was blank; meditating for the past hour in order to do something to numb the pain that came with remembering, burning holes into his heart and his mind, scorching his skin from within his own body.

  He closed his eyes, ready to allow the blissfulness of sleep to claim him to allow him a few hours of ignorance to the world, when he allowed for a moment of vulnerability and his subconscious unexpectedly conjured a memory and he was assaulted with the anguish and humiliation that came with it, and his body burned with shame.

 

  John Watson.

  The rugby team star, champion athlete with above-average grades and a tendency to be the kindest person imaginable.

  Sherlock had thought little of him at first glance. Regardless of his seemingly ridiculously over-the-top positive reputation, Sherlock tended not to side with popular belief, and therefore decided the rumours were far too idealistic, and therefore untrue. John could not be as ‘perfect’ as so many had said.

  Girls, boys and others alike stared in awe at the passing of the rugby star, their eyes practically glowing hearts, their so-called ‘love’ radiating off of them in every direction.

  At least that’s how Sherlock saw it.

  It was frankly _ridiculous_ for so many people to hold such interest in one person. He could not have achieved the high expectations everyone had for him; it was too much. Rumours, of course, were rumours, and did exactly what they always do: morph the truth into something much more melodramatic than what was achievable or necessary.

  It wasn’t exactly the skills that Sherlock was so certain John would lack, though. Sherlock knew, better than anyone, that people often underestimate the capabilities of a person if they looked unassuming in that particular field. For example, they tended to misjudge Sherlock’s ability to punch back when physically assaulted, due to their stupid prejudice of his lithe figure. He’d taken a special interest in martial arts at the age of ten and practically mastered the skill within the month.

  So no, Sherlock didn’t much doubt the capabilities of his intelligence or his sporting finesse (he had never witnessed proof of either of those besides the clear fitness shown though the obviously-enough muscled torso). The aspect of John Watson’s exceptional reputation that Sherlock was most ambivalent of was this bizarre idea that no matter who it was that he spoke to, John Watson was consistently, resolutely kind. And that, apparently, was what made so many people fall for this bizarre specimen.

 

  Though still Sherlock held to his moral principles. If it was popular opinion, it was probably untrue, seeing as the vast majority of the population were consistently wrong about almost everything.

  So when Sherlock had been sitting in maths class, already switched off and zoned out to prepare for the exceedingly dull hour ahead of him, only to be startled out of his thoughts by coughing echoing from somewhere nearby, he found himself dumbstruck as the figure of a small, fit blond-headed boy waded into his vision and said five simple words that seemed to shatter his lonely world into tiny pieces.

  The boy shuffled awkwardly, awaiting a response as Sherlock continued to stare at him, his brain short-circuiting unhelpfully before he finally managed a small frown and an almost quiet, ‘what?’

  ‘Uh… Can I sit with you?’ he said, apparently a repetition, going by the tone of his voice and the slight frown on his face, looking as though he’d severely misjudged something and was considering escaping before another plan went to hell and fell flat on his face, subjecting him to further humiliation through the situation.

  Then just as he’d apparently taken a second too long to respond and John had decided it was best to leave, Sherlock snapped to attention and called pathetically, ‘wait!’

  John froze momentarily before turning back towards him, a strangely hopeful look on his face.

  ‘Uh, yeah, you can sit with me, if- if you want,’ Sherlock said lamely.

  A grin broke out across John’s face as he walked quickly around the desk and dropped into the seat next to him, turning eagerly towards his new company.

  ‘I’m John Watson,’ he said, a blindingly bright and bizarrely charming smile on his face.

  ‘I know,’ Sherlock said slowly, lowering his head to the desk to look blankly at the maths sheet in front of him.

  John frowned, ‘What do you…’

  Sherlock glanced at him quickly before looking back at the sheet pointlessly. ‘Your friends call you it all the time. Not that difficult a deduction.’

  John nodded sharply in understanding, then looked around him as if thinking of what to say.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, his tone strange.

  ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ Sherlock said quickly, looking up to hold his gaze to search his face for a response. He frowned. _He’d known? Why had he known?_

  ‘Oh, you’re… quite a legend around here, aren’t you?’ John asked awkwardly, and yet curiously.

  Sherlock couldn’t stop the humourless laugh from escaping his throat. ‘’Legend’’ he said slowly, turning back to his paper to hide his face, ‘is not how I’d put it.’

  John cocked his head slightly, ‘what do you mean?’ he looked down at the desk. ‘Greg said you were clever. Though, he may have mentioned ‘somewhat annoyingly.’’ -Sherlock nearly snorted- ‘Actually I heard Anderson saying something about someone yesterday…’ John looked up at Sherlock shyly, ‘that wasn’t… you, was it?’

  ‘Yep,’ Sherlock said simply, a hint of irritation showing in his voice. He’d heard very well the loud conversation he and his friends had been having the day before.

  ‘Well…’ John said, turning away to face the front of the room and sliding down slightly in his chair. ‘Whether or not it’s true, I don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sherlock said, frowning and narrowing his eyes slightly at the boy, increasingly aware of his apparently significantly incorrect assumptions about him.

  John looked back at him, and seeing the look on his face, he sat up properly, his eyes wide. ‘I-I mean I’m not saying that you are, or anything! I just meant… I mean… I wouldn’t ever judge anyone for that… at all.’

  Sherlock glanced to his left, half surprised and half uncomfortable. ‘I know.’

  ‘Okay good... I’m just saying… it’s all… fine…’

  ‘Okay… thank you.’

  John turned back around to the teacher, who was now writing symbols on the whiteboard in black marker, and a slightly awkward silence fell over the pair.

  After a few minutes, John turned back to him and, despite the slight frown on his face, he spoke lightly with genuine curiosity. ‘So… what did he mean, then?’

  _Anderson? Oh god._

  Sherlock looked down in panic.

  John’s eyes widened suddenly, ‘no… I mean, you don’t have to answer. Obviously. I just thought- I mean. He kept saying how clever you were, and I was just wondering… Anyway, sorry, ignore me.’ And he ducked his head in shame.

  ‘Oh, you mean… Greg?’

  John looked up, ‘yeah? Who else would I mea-’

  Sherlock could practically see the realisation dawn on him. ‘No, yeah- I meant- Greg- yeah, no- sorry- like I said- I don’t mind at all- or care, for that matter- it’s-’

  Sherlock cut him off, realising he probably hadn’t been about to stop any time soon, and saving him the further embarrassment. ‘I see things,’ he said.

  ‘Oh? Like what?’

  ‘Like the way you won your first game here yesterday, clearly making a good win, and giving yourself a good impression for the team. And the way you ate pancakes this morning, clearly your favourite meal of the day, and yet your least favourite _time_. Like how I know you’re worried about your mother, despite not having a good relationship with her since the drinking started and she walked out on her husband. Like how I know your becoming increasingly worried for your brother, and yet more and more distant with him. Like how I know about your interest in writing and your distaste for rugby, despite your willingness to keep it up… interesting.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You’re not angry.’

  ‘Why would I be angry?’

  ‘Because I’ve exposed you? You should be running off to your other friends by now.’ Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

  John looked at him in confusion, and Sherlock heart sank in his chest as he glanced back at his friends. But then he looked back at him. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘You don’t think… it’s weird?’

  ‘No, it was…’ John thought.

  ‘-Freakish?’ ‘-Fantastic.’

  ‘-wait, what?’ ‘-Oh.’

  They stared at each other for a long time.

  ‘You- you mean… you… really think so?’

  ‘Yeah of course I do, it was… quite extraordinary. How do you even know all that?’

  Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly in thought. ‘That’s not what people normally say.’

  John’s eyes snapped up to meet his. ‘What do people normally say?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  And to Sherlock’s complete surprise, John started laughing so loudly that a few people turned to inspect the sound.

  Frozen in shock, and confused as to whether or not he should be offended, Sherlock looked around self-consciously at the faces as they turned in their direction.

  Then John looked up and Sherlock was met with soft, blue eyes filled with genuine mirth, and Sherlock found he couldn’t help but smile back.

 

 

  Sherlock would never have believed it were possible more than an hour ago, but as the sound of the bell rang through the school, his stomach dropped in disappointment. John stood up and gathered his things, and Sherlock stood awkwardly at his side,taking a ridiculously long time to pick up his single pen and the loose sheet of paper he’d been scribbling equations onto (completing them absent-mindedly as he listened contentedly to the sound of John’s voice directed at him), reluctant to walk away from the one person he’d come closest to considering a friend.

  When he’d pocketed the pen and scrunched up the white paper in his hand, he turned around to see John standing and watching him expectantly. He stepped toward the door reluctantly, and began walking out of the room at the slowest pace he could manage without seeming too suspicious, and to his great surprise and secret delight, John followed by his side, silent, and perhaps unsure.

  When they’d gotten out into the hall, Sherlock was certain John was deliberately walking with him, and he relaxed slightly and threw the balled-up paper in his hand into the nearest recycling bin from a few feet away, landing it at the exact spot he’d been aiming for.

  ‘Do you play basketball?’ John asked, smiling up at him as he shook his head.

  ‘I’ve always hated sports. They involve other _people_ ,’ he elaborated, not hiding his disgust aimed specifically at the word “people.”

  John laughed, and Sherlock realised he truly loved that sound.

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised, should I..’ John said, trailing off.

  Sherlock looked up from his ground, his expression going blank as his heart sank in his chest.

  ‘Anderson,’ he said, acknowledging the stupid teen in monotone.

  Anderson smiled unkindly. ‘What’re you doing here, you queer?’ he sneered.

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual; being my typical, gay self,’ Sherlock replied, his voice impressively mocking and blank at the same time.

  ‘Did you here that, guys? He even admitted it,’ he said, turning to the group that surrounded him. Two of them whistled obnoxiously in reply. He then turned to John, ‘Didn’t you hear our announcement yesterday in the cafeteria? Wouldn’t hang around this one. Might end up with some disgusting crush on you, you’ll have to deal with. It’s not worth the trouble, especially with this freak,’ he turned to Sherlock, grimacing as he gave him a once-over.

  ‘Hey, how about I decide what’s worth the trouble, Anderson?’ John glared, his disgust written clearly across his features.

  Anderson looked shocked. Though not half as shocked as Sherlock felt.

  John turned to the boy next to him and looked up at his face.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him around the group of slightly stunned teenagers.

  When John had slowed down and let go of his arm, Sherlock turned to face him. ‘Uh… that thing you did back there… that was… good.’

  John bit his lip and smiled. ‘Well, I said I was fine with it, and I meant it.’

  Sherlock managed a soft smile in return, meeting John’s eyes and holding his gaze.

  ‘Well, my locker’s actually the other way, so…’ Sherlock said softly.

  ‘Oh, right, yes, of course,’ John said, snapping back into reality and looking over his shoulder, breaking eye contact, leaving Sherlock feeling strangely empty in response.

  ‘So, I’ll… go…’ Sherlock said awkwardly, feeling like it was more of a question that it should have been.

  ‘Yeah… do you wanna maybe… meet in the cafeteria?’ John asked nervously.

  ‘Oh,’ Sherlock exclaimed. ‘Well, I don’t go around there. Too many people… but, I do stand around in the garden. No one ever seems to go there, so it’s preferable.’

  John smiled and nodded, walking off in the direction of his locker (Sherlock had _coincidently_ learned the position of), and Sherlock smiled secretly to himself as he headed straight for the school garden.

 

  John reached his locker, grinning to himself.

  Greg took one glance at him and raised his eyebrows suspiciously. ‘Someone’s happy. Got a date?’

  John shook his head, ‘it’s not a date.’

  Greg nodded in mock understanding. ‘Yeah, sure, of course.’

  John smiled sarcastically back, his eyes light with humour.

  He grabbed a sandwich from his bag and shut the door of the locker, beginning to turn away to meet his friend, when he was stopped by his older one.

  ‘’Ey, John?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You know you can talk to me any time, right?’

  John smiled, confused. ‘Yeah of course…’

  Greg nodded, ‘right, then, see you after school.’

  John grinned and walked away down the hall.

 

  ‘Hey.’

  John’s voice echoed around the garden, startling Sherlock from his thoughts.

  Sherlock turned to face him, glancing at his face and meeting his gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

  Sherlock looked away towards the school shed and nodded towards it, ‘come with me.’

  Sherlock walked away and John followed closely behind him, winding their way through the garden beds until they reached a brick wall, with one plain, dark green, wooden door, a hanging plant, a ladder and a vine that stretched its way across nearly a third of the entire expanse of brick.

  He took a step towards the ladder and gripped a metal rung in his right hand, turning to face towards his company with a smirk before he started to climb.

  John looked around nervously. ‘Are we allowed to do this?’ he called out, looking up at the figure taking swift steps up the metal.

  Sherlock didn’t stop climbing as he called back, ‘probably not.’

  Sherlock reached the rooftop and then looked out over the edge. ‘You coming?’

  Looking conflicted as he glanced back and forth between the ladder and the rest of the school grounds, where someone was certainly going to come from and find them, and seeming to have an argument with himself internally before squaring his shoulders and looking at the ladder, John grabbed onto the side rail and made his way up behind him.

 

  When John got to the top, he looked around, appreciating the unique view of the school ground from where he stood.

  Then someone called out his name from behind him, startling him from his thoughts and he turned around to face his new friend, smiling at him again and walking towards him when he beckoned him over.

  Then Sherlock sat down facing towards the garden, his back and head against the roof, his legs spread out in front of him, closing his eyes against the soft, yellow sunlight filtering in through the trees and dancing over the pale skin of his face.

  _He looks so peaceful_ , John thought, and he felt he could spend all day just watching the way the shadows formed on his face when his head turned slightly with his breathing, or the way his closed eyelids managed to flutter with every whisper of wind.

  ‘You can sit, you know,’ the deep, velvety voice rumbled through the silence.

  ‘Er- right,’ John stated awkwardly, and he moved to sit next to the masterpiece on the roof.

  _Wait- what?_

Sherlock opened his eyes, and stared unseeingly at the garden as John unwrapped his sandwich from the clear, plastic wrap and bit into it.

  John turned to his friend. ‘Aren’t you going to eat?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘When was the last time you ate anything?’

  Sherlock thought for a moment.

  ‘What day is it today?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Uh… Wednesday. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine for today.’

  John blanched, ‘you haven’t eaten today?’

  Sherlock looked at him questioningly. ‘…no?’

  ‘Christ, Sherlock, you have to eat!’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes!’ John said, now exasperated.

  He picked up the other half of his sandwich and held it out to him, his eyebrows raised in a challenge.

  Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared at him for a moment in a half-hearted glare, before sighing and giving in, reaching out his hand for the food and biting into it unhappily, muttering something about how unnecessary it was.

  ‘You want to be a doctor, clearly.’

  John looked around at him in surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘You have the general nature of a doctor, definitely, but there’s something… more. Something I’m missing,’ he said, almost as if thinking out loud.

  ‘Oh, army doctor,’ John explained through a mouthful of food.

  Sherlock smiled -more to himself than anything- ‘yes. The thrill of the danger, but the fulfilment, and society’s general respect of being a doctor. How very John Watson.’

  John nodded in understanding, until ‘-wait, what?’

  Sherlock looked at him, ‘it’s all a bit bisexual, isn’t it?’ he somehow managed to _state,_ rather than ask.

  ‘What do you mean-’

  ‘I never answered you earlier.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You asked before how I knew all of what I said, and I didn’t answer.’

  John looked down at his lap, and then up at the garden in front of him, ‘yes, how did you know all that?’

  ‘I didn’t know, I saw: You clearly won your rugby game yesterday, going by the way the whole team welcomed you to school this morning, and then by the way that you were eyed appreciatively by the rest of the student body. I saw that you ate pancakes this morning, from the crumbs that were on your jacket, earlier. I know it’s probably your favourite meal, going by the fact that you ate it the night after the argument with your mother, and the successful game yesterday -so either out of comfort or reward, or both. It’s your favourite meal of the day, and yet it’s your least favourite _time,_ judging by your general daily routine of looking more dishevelled in the morning and getting gradually cleaner throughout the day -which is uncommon.

  ‘I know your worried about your mother, despite not having a good relationship with her. Maybe it was because of the drinking, maybe because of the split between her and her husband. I know you’re worried about her, because you sent three texts to her this morning, and you kept checking your phone after that, which strongly suggests she hasn't answered them.’

  ‘Okay, but who said anything about the split?’ John asked slowly.

  ‘Your phone,’ he said, drawing it from John’s trouser pocket. ‘It’s a gift. It’s expensive and a recent model, only it’s already worn, and going by the way you treat it, it doesn’t mean much to you despite it’s value. State of the relationship between you and your gifter, right there. Only, you’re not the first owner to have had it. This was originally bought for one Edith Kinsley.’ He turned the phone over so the back was facing upwards, revealing the words “ _To Edith Kinsley, from Hamish xx_ x.”

  ‘So, going by the different surname, it must be your mother. Now, this was clearly a gift for her, but this phone… see, it’s expensive, you wouldn’t just throw away a phone like this. So she’s given it to you, showing she cares about you -so mother and son relationship- but she wanted the phone gone, but why? Clearly something to do with the origins of the phone. So, who’s Hamish? Three hearts says it’s a romantic attachment, cost of the phone says husband. But it’s over now, yet she’s given away the phone. If he’d walked out on her, she’d keep the phone -people do that; sentiment- but oh no, she wanted it gone; she left him. But you still won’t talk to her much, so you clearly don’t have a strong relationship, perhaps you don’t like her drinking problem, maybe you liked her husband -who of course may have been your father.

  ‘As for the recent increasing worry for your brother, yet the more distance between you: you’re not generally an extroverted person, and yet you do a sport you clearly don’t enjoy -judging from the state of the expensive running shoes your wearing, and your attitude whenever someone mentions rugby practice or your skills at it. You have many friends, yet only one of them is someone who you feel close to, perhaps this was a subconscious decision in order to ‘fill the sibling-like hole in your life.’ Yet, you’re not an only child, so why do you crave a sibling-like relationship? Obvious. The name written on your pencil case is old and forgotten. The letting is smudged, and yet clearly says “Harry Watson,” so it’s clearly from your brother. Now, as I said, you don’t like rugby, and yet you still play it. So, why? Especially considering your growing passion for writing -based on the pen smudges on your left hand, which you use to write with- from your late writing sessions every night. So you continue rugby for an incentive outside of interest. Now, it wouldn’t be for fear of losing your friends, seeing as you don’t get off on the attention it gets you, and you have close enough relationships by now, that you wouldn’t lose their company if you dropped out. So it must be something else. Something to do with your father? And your brother. Harry’s not only distant with you, but with your entire family for some reason. So you’re trying to keep the attention off your brother by being a son your father can be proud of. So, loyalty and sacrifice for your brother without anything in return. A good example of strong character. Certainly fitting to be an army doctor.’

  Sherlock finished and there was a long moment of silence, before-

  ‘ _Wow_.’

  Without turning his head, Sherlock looked over at the boy next to him to find him staring at him in awe.

  ‘You’re… still not upset?’

  John would have felt taken aback, if he weren’t still recovering from shock. ‘No… I’m… that was… amazing.’

  ‘You… really don’t think it’s freakish? Or… invasive?’

  John shook his head. ‘No, I think it’s just incredibly observant.’

  ‘Yeah, well sometimes observance isn’t all that great.’

  ‘I can imagine why.’

  Silence fell again, though for the first time, it was completely comfortable.

  ‘Did I get anything wrong?’

  ‘Well, I don’t like rugby, my parents are getting a divorce, and I suppose I’ve been getting more distant with both my mum and Harry,’ John said thoughtfully.

  ‘-All of it was right? I didn’t expect that.’

  ‘-But Harry is short for Harriet.’

  Sherlock turned to look at him, his expression so strangely mortified that John had to repress the intense urge to laugh out loud.

  ‘She’s your _sister? Sister!_ ’ he exclaimed, before muttering repetitively, ‘there’s always _something_.’

  John looked back out in front of him, though this time at the clear blue sky, when something suddenly occurred to him.

  ‘Hey, something I don’t understand is how you know about the drinking,’ John said, his question evident without being voiced.

  For less than a second, a look passed over the other boy’s face that John could only have described as dread, but then it was gone, and Sherlock was coughing awkwardly.

  ‘Uh, you were texting her this morning. You looked worried. And considering your distant relationship with your mother, you wouldn’t text unless you felt you had to. It means something happened last night that you’re, uh, worried about. And she’s not texting back, which means that she can’t. Now this could mean that she could be in hospital, but if she were, you wouldn’t bother texting, because you’d know that she wouldn’t be able to reply. So it’s probably something less serious. Like a hangover.’

  ‘Okay…’ John said, clearly aware of the fact that he hadn’t fully elaborated, but not willing to press further. ‘I suppose that makes sense.’

  Sherlock didn’t bother to reply, but when John glanced at him again, he looked deep in thought about something, and John couldn’t help it when his arm raised to his neck to pull at his shirt collar self-consciously.

 

  A text alert buzzed the phone in Sherlock’s pocket and pulled the two boys out of their own daydreams.

  Sherlock pulled his arm out and placed it on his leg, with the phone in his hand, waiting impatiently for the phone to load.

  Then suddenly, he jumped up in excitement, and ran to the ladder with an uncharacteristically gigantic grin on his face. Then, placing one hand on either side rail, he practically slid down the ladder and ran off as soon as his feet hit the ground, leaving John sitting in on the rooftop in shock and confusion.

  The school bell rang, signalling the end of the lunch break, and John made his way back to his locker slowly, still confused about Sherlock’s abrupt exit, and trying ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach, like he’d been abandoned and was missing out on something important.

  He went to his next class (chemistry), which he was supposed to share with Sherlock. But when he walked into the room he found it lacked said person, and the annoying hollow feeling in his stomach returned as he sat down next to Greg and didn’t say a word the entire hour, ignoring his worried glances, and the questioning looks from all his friends.

 

  Two periods later, John trudged his way through the hallways and to his locker, depositing his pencil case and books and collecting his bag and rugby uniform before closing the metal door and slowly making his way towards the school field.

  John was pulled suddenly out of his thoughts by a voice nearby. At first not realising it was aimed at him, he looked up and jumped when he met an unpleasant look from one of the girls in the year above him.

  ‘You’re not his friend?’ she asked unkindly.

  ‘Not… who’s friend?’ John asked slowly and almost absently, raising the sound of the end every word in a way that made it seem like each word was its own question. He looked around the hall in confusion. ‘…Sorry, who are you?’

  ‘Sally Donovan,’ she said. ‘You know he doesn’t have friends? So who are you?’

  _Right, Sherlock… well,_ ‘I’m… I’m nobody, I just met him.’

  ‘Right, well, bit of advice for you, then. Stay away from him,’ she said, clearly thinking that was enough, and turning away to leave.

  _This is all so stupid_ , he thought angrily.

  ‘ **Why?’** John demanded.

  She turned back to face him. ‘You know why he comes here? Rich school, good education, and he barely attends any classes or anything. Did you ever wonder why he doesn’t have any friends?’

  ‘I- no…’

  ‘It’s because he’s a freak, who hurts everyone who comes near him… and you know what, one day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he’s a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored.’

  John smiled sarcastically. ‘Right, thank you for the advice,’ and he turned away, walking off hurriedly.

  ‘Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!’ she called after him, just as he turned the last corner and walked out of the building.

  _Yeah, well, I don’t really have a choice._

 

  John sat alone in the changing room on the wooden bench that covered half of the perimeter of the room, his back pressed against the wall and his bag pushed up against the side of his right leg, his mind replaying the exit scene on the rooftop over and over again.

  John knew. He knew he shouldn’t feel responsible for his leaving, and he knew he shouldn’t take it personally, but somewhere in the back of his mind there was this whispering, lingering doubt, trying to convince him otherwise.

  Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, and John jumped in surprise.

  ‘Sorry, mate, it’s just, uh, practice is starting,’ Greg said, gesturing to the door.

  ‘Oh, right, yeah.’

  Greg moved to leave as John began to put on his shoes, but he faltered at the door.

  ‘You know, I really meant it,’ he said.

  John looked up at him questioningly.

  ‘What I said before,’ he elaborated unhelpfully. When John didn’t seem to get the message, he continued. ‘You can always talk to me, if you need to.’

  ‘Oh…’ John said. ‘Right, yeah… thanks.’

  John looked around as Greg left, only just noticing the bags that had appeared around him. And at the same moment the door swung closed behind him, John brought his legs up onto the bench -one foot bare, one clothed in a shoe without its laces untied- and buried his face in his knees, with his arms wrapped around him, his left hand gripping his sleeved right forearm tightly.

 

  When practice had finally finished, John walked back to the change room faster than he had walked all day, grabbing his bag quickly before walking into the shower cubicle, hanging it on the hook, stripping off his sweaty shirt and stepping under the cold water of the shower.

  When he was done, he stepped out into the communal area and glanced around at the half-dressed boys quickly before making his leave, ignoring Mike’s enthusiastic and drawn-out call of ‘Watson!’ and the chorus of cheers that followed.

 

  John walked through the dark street, his footsteps sounding loudly against the silence, and his breathing loud in his ears.

  When he got to the corner of his street, he looked up at the familiar row of houses and took a deep breath before continuing along the few buildings to his house.

  When he was met by the distinct gravel driveway and the rows of slightly weedy garden beds, twisting their way around the garden until they met in the middle, he looked up at the white house, towering over him menacingly.

  His heart raced as he walked up the path to the porch -a simple, raised platform level with the inside of the house. It was dark. No one had bothered to turn on the porch light for him. Shoving down the hopeless feeling rising in his chest, he fished in his pocket for the key, pulling it out and inserting it into the keyhole as quickly as possible.

  The door opened quietly, and he closed it hurriedly behind him. He walked down the dark corridor, stopping at the end by both instinct and the faint light filtering in under one of the doors.

  He pushed open the living room door, holding his breath as he flicked on the light.

  His mum was lying, unconscious, on the sofa, an empty bottle of wine on the coffee table and the blind still open from the morning.

  John walked over to the window and pulled at the cord, watching as the blind fell over the glass, blocking his view to the once well-kept garden.

  He then turned around to his mother and walked towards her, nudging her softly in the shoulder with his hand until she opened her eyes slowly and looked up at him, no recognition in her bright, blue eyes.

  He waited for her to sit up slowly, then helped her to stand. With his hand still gripping her arm for support, he led her to her bedroom and helped her to lie on the bed.

  As soon as her head hit the pillow, she was asleep, and he had to work around the unconscious figure, to rearrange the covers for her comfortably.

  He left her room and walked to his own, moving instantly to sit down on his bed, before standing up slightly as he moved the metal scissors from underneath him to make room for him to sit. He closed his eyes and let his head fall into his palms as he sighed quietly into the darkness.

 

  One and a half hours later, at exactly 11:00pm, his phone buzzed from inside his backpack and John looked up from his arm to inspect.

  Standing up slowly, he walked over to his bag and fished out his phone, clicking it on and closing his eyes as the glaring bright light lit up his face in the darkness.

  He opened his text messages, seeing a new text from an unknown source, that read:

  _Meet me out the front at 7:30am tomorrow -SH._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the long wait, but I probably won't be posting again on this story for a while, however I have not given up on it, so don't worry, I will be back with something more. It just may be a few months before I am


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